


Skin Samples Examined Closely

by Ariel_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Teeth, Vaginal Sex, Well -- may be some plot, and lips, fingers in wet spots, rough-ish sex, tongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_x/pseuds/Ariel_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Sherlock are at it again.  Taunting each other, grating on one another's nerves.  Oh, how <i>will</i> it end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Samples Examined Closely

**Author's Note:**

> _This just… happened. Right. I don’t know how, apparently I feel like angry sex today. And a PWP. Sherlock is a bit OOC, I think, but whatevs. Enjoy._

Sherlock suddenly itched to know the time.  He’s been peering in an ocular at skin samples for a while, taking notes and making connections with only vague awareness of his surroundings. Now he glanced at his watch and winced.  It was very much past midnight, the lab was empty, apart from Molly.  There she was, sat in front of a computer, running a DNA sequencing analysis tool.

"Molly, you didn't tell me a new neighbor moved in?"

"What?" Molly perked up.  

"Did Mrs Olinforth move out? Oh no, she died, didn't she? A new tenant in the flat above already."

"How did you... Never mind.  Yes. Yes to both."

"And now you're thinking of moving too -- what does he do? Play Metallica? Build furniture at two am? Experiment with sulfites? Has a girlfriend whose climax shakes walls?"

Molly stared at him in disbelief, frantically searching for a scathing retort.   Sherlock was unphased.

"Do you really think the lab is the best place to move to? Have you considered that bench? Bit uncomfortable to sleep that high, don't you think? Brought your toothbrush yet?"

"What are you..."

"Don't tell me you stayed here to keep my epidermis samples company."

Molly laughed.  This was too silly, too stupid, and entirely too Sherlock -- this might have reduced her to tears before, but now she knew better.  She got up and walked over to his bench.  

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said folding her arms on her chest and leaning back into the worktable.  "Just ask me to move in to Baker Street with you and see what happens."

"What?" - he blinked.  

"Ask nicely, don't be shy.  Maybe it's you who've decided to keep  my samples company while keeping on the bench? Brought a toothbrush yet?"

He cocked his head and gave her a once-over. "I see.  You still want me."

"I want you? You want me to want you."

"No, Molly, you want me to want you to want me."  Sherlock was on his feet now, facing her.  

"Never gave it half a thought," said Molly.  

"No, of course not." He rolled his eyes.  "Look, you're making a mistake."

She was wearing a skirt, a simple skirt, hitting just above the knees -- he was so close to her, too close -- her scent was playing tricks on his ability to think clearly -- he should've definitely stepped back -- why was he rooted to the floor all of a sudden? -- and she was looking up at him with those big trusting eyes, and immediately his stomach felt odd, head light, throat dry. After a moment he breathed in deeply and managed to recover, his resolve to ensure it's absolutely transparent to her just how sociopathic he is back in full force.  

"But really, is this what you want," he asked, as his extra-nimb hand moved under her waistband, past it and into her knickers, where it didn’t stop -- instead two fingers plunged into her folds, ruthlessly, aggressively,  -- and yes, she was damp -- yes, she gasped and drew a bit back, and arched her hips  -- "is this what you’re after?" he repeated, savagely thumbing her clit and curving his fingers inside her, rubbing her mercilessly,  relentlessly -- and looking her directly in the eye -- she gulped, betraying her arousal, dismay, and yes, shock -- but his gaze was locked on her -- he had to show her the awful truth -- and he continued -- "because this is what I am, Molly, I will take what I need and make you whimper" -- his fingers did something that forced Molly to gasp again in spite of herself -- "and yarn for it -- yes, even more -- and I will" -- he disengaged his fingers just as abruptly, and Molly’s waistband snapped against her belly -- very deliberately, Sherlock sucked on his own fingers, his eyes not wavering from Molly’s once --   before tracing her jawline with his still wet thumb -- "wipe my feet on you and move on -- over, and over, and over again -- because this is what i do, always done, and am incapable of anything else" -- he was now standing before her, hands folded back, still as a statue.

She was panting, mad at him and insane with want at the same time, but oh she could control herself.  Control! And she said nothing, trying to even her breathing.

“So is  this what you want?” -- he asked again, his voice a bit hoarse.

“You bastard!” -- she slapped him.  Again. Kudos, Molly, for staying silent and in control. But then lately it's been the only effective way to get through to him, get his attention, make him focus.  Oh, she was angry and she wasn't going to let him get away with it.  But he was, he was getting away with it, the smirking prick, who just now caught her wrists in his gigantic paws, moved them down to her hips and was kissing her, hungrily and passionately -- and she was returning it, with all her anger, and more so, with abandon, biting at his lips, sucking them in, and being bitten, sucked and devoured in return.  

In a moment, her bum was thrust on the worktop, her skirt hiked up to her waist, all bunched up and wound around Sherlock's wrist, her labcoat sliding off her shoulders, Sherlock's other palm stroking and squeezing her belly under the skirt, his mouth still glued to hers, her own hands fumbling with hooks and buttons on Sherlock's bespoke trousers, fingers numb with urgency. 

Oh, a few more thundering heart beats, and he was now practically ripping the buttons of her blouse off, pushing the bra aside to latch hard on her nipple as she buried her nose in his wiry curls, kissing his forehead, his hairline, anywhere she could reach, twisting his hair in her right hand, palming his erection with her left. 

They were both strung so very high, were so very frantic, this couldn’t end well -- to hell with it, thought Molly --- to hell -- 

She pulled his head off of her -- “Do you have?” -- she squared her thumb and forefinger.  Sherlock’s face fell.  “No, I don’t.” “You  _are_ clean? We did… the other tests fairly recently.”  He drew slightly back, but she wouldn’t let him go, reaching up to kiss along his jawline -- tiny, bead-like caressing smacks -- “I am,” he finally responded.  “Well, I have in implant,” she muttered into his ear giving it a tiny lick and stroking her hand up his bulge. 

In the next instant it was again madness and chaos -- he was on his knees, pulling her knickers down, his head between her legs, licking her, lapping at her wetness, his fingers strumming her open, filling her with lightness and unbearable weight at the same time -- “Now, Sherlock” -- she moaned, and in the next second he was up, and holding on to her hip and the worktop, and thrusting into her -- roughly, deliberately, letting her feel every inch of his formidable cock.  

She came with a shuddering, artless cry, and he paused momentarily looking into her face before resuming, doubling his thrusts, unwavering eyes locked on her. 

Now he was holding her head in his hands again, his mouth against  her  ear --  “Molly, Molly, you see, Molly, I will do this to you, every”, his speech was becoming slurred, ”time, every. Bloody. Time.” His mouth curved into an exquisite “O,” and Molly pressed him against her own tiny frame, kissing his eyes, moving his damp curls off his forehead --  

“Molly…” 

They were clinging to each other ever tighter. 

“I know,” she said (she didn’t actually, but she felt it was the appropriate response, now that her mind was blissfully blank, and her body -- an intricate transmitter of every signal Sherlock). 

He looked at her and smiled. “I do.  I do want you to move to Baker street. I will torment you every moment, and you will regret it very much.  But there, I said it.”  His lips curved up again.

“I know,” she repeated and slid off the bench, readjusting her skirt and raising her arms to wind round Sherlock’s neck. “Will look forward to it, you git!”   


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please remember that Kudos do brighten the author's eye -- ever so slightly ;^)
> 
> (and comments make the next story appear quickly and read better. really!)


End file.
